


What Remained, Survived

by benthe2nd



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Character Death, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-04 10:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benthe2nd/pseuds/benthe2nd
Summary: Michael Griffith had a life - a damn good one.In a perfect storybook, he’d have a happy ending, too.But real life was not a storybook.Real life was cruel.Real life knocked people down and then kick them in the face while they’re on the ground.Life was unfair.Life played dirty.So why shouldn’t he?OR(If you prefer a more straight forward summary)Gay boy turns from a bullied kid that wouldn’t fight back for the love of his life into the epitome of bad boy supreme that avenges sevenfold after a series of unfortunate event break down his sweet summer child personality.There will be drama, there will be romance, but also there will be a lot of violence.There’s gonna be blood, graphic description of violence, I’m not holding back on this one. If this is a movie, it’s gonna be an R rated one.





	1. Prologue - He Remained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, I open the story with very graphic violence. I'm talking blood, death, all the works.
> 
> Don't get attached.
> 
> Enjoy.

Born on 29 th  September, 2002 in Carson, Nevada, Michael Griffith was the older brother to Dante Forest Griffith, born 30 th  April, 2009. His father, Nelson Blake Griffith was an army veteran - formerly a colonel with long list of achievements, and his mother, Donna Novella Griffith (née Bianchi), a former pianist for New York Philharmonic.

His parents met in a bar in Manhattan, New York City, on Christmas eve, 1994. His father was on leave, and was supposed to be back home in Nevada with his family, but refused to because of the tension between him and his family. He went to New York instead, to crash in his fellow then-major friend’s couch, and was out drowning in alcohol in a middle class bar, listening to a jazz pianist’s tune. 

The pianist, as it turned out, was New York’s Philharmonic’s newest pianist, Donna Novella Bianchi. That night was supposed to be her last performance at Marcello’s, not only because of her admittance to the prestigious orchestra, but also because Daniel Marcello, the bar owner and her lifelong friend, planned to close up shop in about 3 months’ time to move back to North Carolina. The beautiful pianist caught the soldier’s attention, and, a few drinks later, they exchanged numbers with a promise to meet again the next time Nelson went back home from deployment in Afghanistan.

Approximately a year later, they meet again a few blocks away from the boutique that used to house Marcello’s. Nelson had gone up through the rank at an impressive speed, and Donna was already the rising star of New York Philharmonic. Drunk on their success, they began dating right away. Despite the rushed start, however, their relationship flourished through the extended long-distance periods when Nelson was on deployment.

They got engaged on 16 th  December, 2000. Donna insisted on spending the Christmas and new year in Nevada with Nelson’s family, citing that, when they got married, Nelson’s family would be the only one to attend, as Donna’s parents were both immigrant with no relatives in States, and had both died before she even reached the age of 22. With her encouragement, Nelson and his family called truce—however begrudgingly, and began to restore a healthy, if a little stilted, relationship. On 30 th  October 2001, they got married.

Their life was perfect, a typical American dream—white picket fence house, newly honorably discharged husband that immediately began working as a mechanic, housewife that gave private piano lessons, and a baby on the way. Nelson and Donna were so in love, both which each other and their new life together. When the ultrasound revealed their baby to be a healthy, active boy, the father literally jumped up and down in excitement. Any lingering tension between Nelson and his father disappeared when a copy of the ultrasound picture was presented the next time they visited.

They went on with their life, growing happier and happier by day. Michael proved to take on both his father’s good look and his mother’s sweet temperament. He was kind, helpful, considerate, and smart. His father’s militaristic background gave him a sense of responsibility and discipline, while his mother’s tutelage turned him into the perfect little gentleman everyone cooed at. Michael was almost 6 when his parents announced that he was going to be a big brother.

Unlike many other kids, Michael took the new baby’s arrival with a maturity that belied his age. When he was finally allowed to hold his tiny baby brother Dante in his arms, he cooed a soft hello and pressed a gentle kiss on the sleeping infant’s forehead. From that moment on, Michael’s arms quickly became Dante’s favorite sleeping spot - even more so than their parents’. Nelson grumbled good-naturedly every time Michael had to take over the Dante-calming duty from him. Because sometimes, Dante just really missed his “Micki” very much. During those times, Donna just smiled blissfully and began playing lullabies on their piano.

The next 6 years blazed away with bliss-enhanced speed. Michael aced his way through elementary school and half his middle school with minimal problem. Straight A report card, the soloist in a local church’s choir, defending champion of local junior taekwondo championship. Michael was well-liked by his teachers and peers alike. Dante, on his part, was a grade-1 student hellbent on emulating Michael as best as he could. When asked by his teacher who his hero was, the child struggled hard to choose between his daddy, mommy, and Micki. A perfect family, perfect life, slotted to have a perfect ending for their sweet story.

That was, of course, until Donna Novella Griffith was hit by a truck, manned by a drunk driver, and died on the spot on 29 th  September, 2015. That day, on Michael’s 13 th  birthday, the Griffith family lost the pillar that hold the them up straight, and they began to crumble like a house of card in the wind. On 29 th  September, 2015, Michael’s life turned from a perfect fairy tale to a cheap horror movie that won’t even make it to the C-list.

Nelson turned to alcohol and one night stands. Dante grew quiet, shy, and alarmingly clingy to his brother. Michael faded into the background, weighed down by the death of his mother, the onslaught of puberty’s hormone concoction, and the revelation that he might just be a homosexual.

With his father’s increasingly erratic behavior, Michael was forced to be the man of the house—or rather, the errand boy of the house. All of Donna’s job as a housewife immediately fell into his shoulders—cook, clean, do laundry, make sure Dante do his homework and got tucked in his bed by 9 p.m., make sure that Nelson’s quickly diminishing income last them the whole month. The last one was particularly hard to accomplish, though, with his father skipping work and spending money on bottles of cheep beer and bottom shelf liquor.

Michael had to eventually cover for his father’s missed shift hour at the workshop. It took a lot of begging and convincing, but eventually, Mr. Carver caved and allowed the barely 13 year-old to “help out” to make up for Nelson’s negligence. When missed shift turned into complete disappearance, however, Mr. Carver had to face yet another round of begging from Michael. On one hand, he felt obligated to report Nelson for neglect, marking him unfit for being a parent. But on the other, Michael tearfully pleaded him not to take his father away as well - even when the middle-aged man could clearly see the poorly hidden bruises and cut under the thinning boy’s shirt.

Because, despite Nelson’s frequent outburst of tantrum, ones that Michael had to redirect into himself, lest his baby brother would be hit head-on, Michael still loved his father dearly. For each blow to his stomach, Michael remembered the good old days when his father would tickle him on that spot instead of punching it. For every thrown bottles, he remembered the praises that would be thrown into his way instead. Michael would just take the beating in silence, desperately trying to not anger his father any further as well as making sure Dante was spared from the violence.

No mater what happened, Michael vowed that Dante would have as normal a childhood as he could give. And if that meant indulging his brother on piggyback rides, even when his back stung with wounds and matted, barely dried blood, then so be it. No price was too high for Dante’s happiness.

It quickly became a routine: wake up at crack-ass dawn and make breakfast for Dante and his father. Scrounged whatever left and made it into his. Take a shower, and treat his wounds as best as he could. Wake Dante up, make sure he ate breakfast—all of it, he was a picky eater—and walked him to school. Went the other way around to his own school, running a little because he’d be late otherwise. Try not to run into the jocks and bullies, because somehow, the rumor that he was gay was outed, and he didn’t have it in him to lie about who he really was. Make excuses to teachers and headmistress about his dropping performance and thinning body. Call daycare to make sure Dante had been picked up, safe and sound. Run to the shop, work until about 7 pm. Run  _ the other way around— _ again—to pick Dante up. Sneak his younger brother into his room through the backyard and put on a headphone on his little ears, making sure that the weird routine was taken as a game instead by the younger boy. Sneak out, walk in through the front door, take whatever beating his father wanted to give him that day, and stay silent the whole time. Get up from the floor, go to the bathroom for 5 minutes to make sure that his face wasn’t bruised. Cook dinner with whatever he could find. Leave a portion for his father, take the rest to his brother. Help Dante study. Make sure he showered and brushed his teeth before going to bed. Maybe sing him one of their mother’s lullabies, if Dante was a little moody that day. Sneak into his bedroom. Do his own school work, and sleep—sometimes right there on his desk because painkillers make him drowsy too.

It was hard. Incredibly so. But it was routine, as fucked up as it was, and the repetition soon turned into normalcy. Until his father caught wind about his sexuality, and, after beating him up until his rib cage cracked in 3 different places, decided that he couldn’t live in a town where everyone knew that his son was a “motherfucking faggot.”

Never mind the fact that literally everyone knew about it already. Nelson was such an absentee father by that point that he was the last one to know.

So they move to New York when Michael had just turned 14.

Somehow, the rumor followed him there, too. The new, gay freshman—every bully’s wet dream. Fortunately, his father didn’t know anyone in their neighborhood, so there was no way he could know that Michael was still being made fun of for being a faggot, even here, in New York. 

He struggled with adjusting his routine. Nearby workshop’s owner wasn’t someone that might as well have been his uncle. Convincing Mr. Davis to let him work there for more than 18 hours a week meant that he was paid way below his usual pay grade (although to be fair, Mr. Carver did pump up his paycheck a little bit to help out.)

For another, apartments don’t have back doors, only balcony. Luckily, theirs was on the fourth floor instead of 10 th , so going by emergency stair was still an option. Still, convincing Dante to carry on the “game” took a little bit of creative explanation on Michael’s part. At his point, however, Michael believed that Dante had started to understand—or at least suspect—the true motive behind his older brother’s “sneakaroo”.

But he dealt. Because what else could he do? Until he’s 18, he couldn’t bring Dante out of their shitty situation. Not legally, at least. The choice was either continuing the routine, or spill to the authority about his father’s abuse and get kicked into the system. A system that not only would put Michael’s father in prison, but also had the chance of separating him from Dante.

Hell would freeze over before he let anyone take his baby brother away from him.

He’d rather take the heartbreak (along with a few occasional broken bones, because his father believed that beating him hard enough would expel the gay out of him) rather than take that chance of losing Dante for good. Bruises would fade. Cuts would heal. Dante’s future, however, was at stake. Michael refused to lose this one battle, even if he has to put his life on the line.

And so the routine resumed. Minor adjustment had to be made here and there, but it largely stayed the same. His income was lower than before, but the tiny, rundown Apartment’s rent was also, miraculously, a little cheaper than the bill of their old two-story house back in Nevada. His new school was pricier, but he somehow managed to snag a deal with his new boss: two-years of minimum wage work after graduation in exchange for textbook money and occasional salary bonus. Maybe he should wear sleeveless shirt more often to work? The point was: it worked.

But fate wasn’t done fucking his life over.

~ 0 0 0 ~

On 14 th  February, 2017, Michael’s world made yet another 180 turn.

He was semi-limping to the shop from his school, cursing New York’s slippery sidewalk with all his might. He took out his busted-up, third-hand phone, and placed his usual call to Dante’s daycare. The phone rang once, twice, thrice, before it was picked up.

_ “Sunny Yard Daycare, how may I help?” _

“Miss Hansen, this is Michael － ”

_ “Ah, yes, Michael. Calling for Dante?” _

“Yeah. He’s there already?”

_ “Hmm… he told me it’s supposed to be a secret, but I suppose you can act surprised later, right?” _

He furrowed his brows. Something was wrong. “Miss Hansen? I don’t think I follow?”

_ “My, dear. Don’t you know what day is it?” _

“Tuesday?”

Miss Hansen giggled on the phone.  _ “Oh, you oblivious boy. It’s valentine’s, sweetie.” _

“Uh… okay? Please don’t tell me my 8-year-old brother is about to profess his undying love to his crush? If he even has one?”

_ “Oh god, no. It’s you, Michael. He said, and I quote: ‘It’s a day to celebrate love, right? Well I love Micki, so I’ll give him a surprise!’ Kinda hard to say no to that kid, I swear.” _

Cold sweat was breaking out of Michael’s forehead now. “Miss Hansen, is Dante there or not?”

_ “No, he insisted on going home right away so he can set a surprise for you… is everything okay, Michael? You sound distressed….” _

But the teen wasn’t hearing anything anymore. Dante was home. Alone. With their drunk, violent, abusive father. He hang up, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and broke into a sprint towards their apartment, twisted ankle all but forgotten.

_ No, no, no. Dante, no. Please be OK. _

He squeezed his way through the crowd, earning a few yells and shouts. He didn’t care. His inside felt cold. The aching bruise and cuts ceased to be felt by his brain. Adrenaline rushed through his body, urging him forward, quicker than he had ever ran before. He reached his apartment building in about 20 minutes, a record time, yet it’s still too slow. He heard himself wheezing for air, but he couldn’t feel his lungs burning with exhaustion. Dread’s cold grip was masking everything but worry in him.

He quickly ran up the emergency stair, skipping steps after steps, somehow managing not to slip on the wet metal. In a few short minutes, he reached his apartment’s balcony. Hastily, he yanked the sliding door open.

And he stopped dead in his track.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Blood on the floor.

Blood on the wall.

Blood on the sofa.

Blood dripping down the fucking ceiling.

Blood dripping down the knife clutched in Nelson’s trembling fingers.

And Blood gushing out of his baby brother’s sliced neck.

Blood.

Gushing.

Out of.

_ Dante _ .

“Dante,” he whispered, voice dead.

“It’s not my fault,” Nelson denied, voice shivering.

“Dante,” Michael called, desperate.

“IT’S NOT MY FUCKING FAULT!” Nelson yelled, leaping to Michael, knife bared.

He didn’t even think about it. He didn’t take his eyes off of Dante’s corpse. He didn’t need to. He simply raised his right hand, letting the knife sink through his palm. He didn’t even feel it.

“Dante, baby, please…” he begged.

“HE FUCKING ASKED FOR IT! THAT FUCKING BRAT ASKED FOR IT!” Nelson screamed like a madman.

He was a madman.

Nelson tried to pull the blade out of Michael’s hand, but he took Nelson’s fist in a death grip. For the first time, he looked into the killer’s eyes.

“You.”

“FUCKING BRAT DESERVED TO FUCKING DIE! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

But he was powerless against Michael’s fury.

Michael gripped harder, and twist the monster’s arm viciously. Nelson yelled, surprised and in pain, but Michael didn’t stop. Nelson fell to his knees, body twisting to accommodate the equally twisted arm. Michael kicked him down brutally to the floor, listening with dull satisfaction as a rib gave out under his foot with a loud  _ crack _ .

“YOU FUCKING INGRANE!”

Michael answered by twisting his arm some more. Once.  _ Crack _ . Twice.  _ Crack. _  Thrice.  _ Crack _ . 

He took the knife out of the sickeningly broken arm, blade still embedded into his arm. Nelson was crying and sobbing from the pain, but all the Michael could hear was blood rushing in his ear.

He pulled the blade out, and blood gushed out.

But he still didn’t feel the pain.

How could he, when his heart was in crumbling into nothing in his chest?

Nelson yelled out some more, and he realized belatedly that it was because he’d slashed both of his thighs and unbroken arm.

“Shut up.”

“FUCKING TRASH! YOU DIRTY SON OF A BI － ”

Michael stabbed him through both of his cheeks, unfortunately missing his tongue, but shutting him up all the same. He stepped forward, pressing down all of his weight into Nelson’s recently slashed arm, breaking it’s bones.

He stepped forward again, eyes locked to Dante’s body, which had stopped bleeding by now.

He stepped forward again. And again. And again. Until he’s standing over his baby brother.

His dead baby brother.

He didn’t recall what happened next, but he woke up to policemen and paramedics trying to take Dante away from his arms.

Again.

He fought. They yelled. He cried. They pleaded. He sobbed. They stabbed him in the neck with something.

And darkness swallowed him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about posting in Wattpad too? IDK I never even read there, but as far as I know, original works' a hit there? much more so than here? I'm making an account as we speak, same name: benthe2nd. I'll see if the traffic's more crowded there, but most likely I'll post both here and there.
> 
> I have the general idea of what I'm going to do with this story, but the romance part is still very foggy. I'd rather focus on writing a baddass gay bad boy supreme kicking ass, tbh.


	2. Inside Looking Out

Born 1 st  March, 2003, in Staten Island, New York City, Nikita “Nick” Orlov hailed from a first generation Russian-American father. His father, Yakov Pavel Orlov, was a Soviet escapee that ran to the United States with his mother, Anna Viola Orlova, when he was just a child during the cold war.

He was the result of a drunken one-night stand of his father’s, a fact that none of his family seemingly cared to hide from him. Nick was just dumped in front of his father’s apartment door, crying and starved, hours after he was born. His mother didn’t even bother to name him, only to gave a short letter telling Yakov that he was indeed his son, that he was born that day, on 1 st  March, and that he should thank her for not aborting him instead.

Yakov rushed around the city that day, buying whatever supply his mother told him a newborn would need. Nick was lucky enough to have a father with a respectable position as the branch CTO of a prominent cybersecurity company. Even if his birth was very much unexpected, his father was able to afford the surprise-expanse a baby entailed.

Nick was brought up with the mantra of “you’re unexpected, unplanned, but not unloved.” His father, although awkward and unprepared for the role of a parent, cared for him and was unashamed of vocalizing it. His  _ babushka _  was incredibly loving, but stern and unafraid to show him a little “tough love” whenever necessary. His childhood was filled with encouraging words, violin lessons, and warm  _ pirozhki _  that his  _ babushka _  refused to divulge the recipe to—not that either him or his father could ever make one even if she did, though.

Being raised by his gentle, even-tempered, sometimes bordering on meek father, he too, grew up to be a loving, naive child that saw beauty and love in everyone and anyone. His  _ babushka _  had long since given up on “toughening up” the Orlov men, claiming that the tenderness had been a genetic trait since way before she married into the family. Instead, she insisted on her little “Nikishka” to be “strong in his kindness” and “stubborn in his sweetness.” She thought him to be adamantly good—no matter how hard the world would try to take that benevolence away from him.

And the lesson stuck. Hard.

Nick (as he liked to call himself out of the family,) always went for the diplomatic route, even when he grew up to favor his grandmother’s shorter stature that often resulted in a lot of not-so-friendly ribbing from his peers. His baby-like appearance, however, often incited a protective response from his more well-mannered friends. His bright disposition, his honesty and his genuine kindness afforded him with an assortment of protectors and guardians, both from the people close to him and strangers alike.

When he came out during the last year of middle school, this secured his position as one of the very few that got away with only a few verbal bullying instead of physical. Unlike a lot of other unfortunate souls in his position, his cherubic bearing usually invited the help of at least one other student before the beating get too harsh. He’s forever grateful of his  _ babushka _  for raising him right.

When she died of old age, Nick, then a 12 years-old teenager, and his father handled it well… at least on the outside. Nick’s father definitely noticed that he never picked up his violin anymore, but he didn’t say anything. He knew that Nick always played for his  _ babushka _ , never for anyone else—not even him.

High school came around, and Nick had been happy about the change. A few of his friends from middle school would attend the same high school with him, and he had been more than ready for a change of pace. And for the most part, he wasn’t disappointed. His old friends were still close to him, even though they belong to different cliques. His new friends were also popping up here and there. The bullies were being kept in check, mostly by Chase, a sophomore running-back that used to go to the same middle school as him.

When a new kid from Nevada transferred at the start of the winter quarter early in the year, the ribbing and occasional hollered insult stopped almost completely, and transferred to the new kid instead. At first he figured it was just a case of new-kid syndrome. He never experienced it himself, but he knew that the first week of being a new kid could be filled with questioning stares and comments. But when the bullies left him alone still even after almost 3 weeks after the transfer, Nick knew that something was off.

Turned out, one of the freshman has a cousin that went to the new kid, Michael Griffith’s old school back in Nevada, and said cousin has some unflattering tale for the Eastview High students’ consumption.

Naturally, Nick tried to stand up for him. But it’s really hard to do that when the student in question was so… meek about the whole thing. He just stayed silent, looking down to the floor (or in a lot of cases, had his face pressed down to it) and took the beating wordlessly. The kids that stood up for  _ him _  when he was bullied didn’t even raise a finger when it came to  _ Michael _ .

Not Sarah, who once slapped Mason’s cheek so hard, it stayed red for a whole day.

Not Claire, who regularly glared at Mason’s posse whenever they travelled between classes.

Not Jason, who covered for him during fall quarter’s gym, when he was being the target of unnecessarily hard dodgeball throws.

Not even Chase, who Nick had come to see as some kind of knight in football jersey and varsity jacket.

When the news (gossip, really) rolled around the day after Valentine’s day, Nick couldn’t help but to feel so incredibly guilty.

He should’ve done more.

~ 0 0 0 ~

“Hey, Nick, over here!” Jason’s loud, boisterous voice cut through the cafeteria’s chatter.

Squeezing himself through the masses, Nick followed the wide grin and waving hand. “Heya, Jas. Where’s the other?”

“Still lining. Hey, have you heard the news??” the boy asked eagerly.

Nick groaned and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Jas. You know I don’t gossip like that.”

“It’s true, though! Everyone said so!”

“Jason, everyone said that the Earth was flat back in the day—” he started, only to stop and jumped in surprise when a cold bottle was shoved into his cheek. “Sarah! Dang it, Stop doing that!”

The pretty brunette just laughed like the bum-hole that she was and crammed herself into his side. “Hello to you too, Nicky. You heard the news?”

“Not you too!”

“Not her too what,” Chase asked as he sat in front of him.

“That rumor! C’mon guys, if you’re not gonna help, at least don’t badmouth him!”

“Nick, you know we don’t mean it like that,” Claire said from behind him. “And we did try to help him once, remember?”

“Yeah, dude didn’t even bother to say ‘thanks’ or something,” Jason agreed.

“He didn’t say anything, actually, because he was clearly hurt. Ugh, I can’t believe this. You  _ know _  I have to deal with the exact same poop as he does!”

Chase reached out and patted his arm. “That’s the point, Nick. You actually  _ try _  to deal with it. He doesn’t.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” he said, fully aware that he was sounding like a whiny kid.

“It  _ is _  as simple as that, Nicky. We tried to tell those A-hole to stuff it and scram, but if he doesn’t stand for himself… well, there’s nothing we can do about that, right?”

“ _ You _  stand up for me.”

“ _ You _  are our friend.”

Nick gaped at his friend. “That’s… Jesus, Sarah, that’s messed up and you know it!”

Said friend just shrugged, unrepentant. “Maybe. But that’s the truth. You might be the SJW that stand up for total stranger, but I’m not doing that for someone that for all I know might be doing drug behind the scene.”

“Sarah!”

“Okay, okay! Sorry, that was a little much—”

“A  _ little _ ?!”

“—doesn’t make it any less true, though.”

Nick bristled, very much ready to rehearse their usual lunch-break dispute for the last month or so.

But Chase cut him off before he could—bless him. “What Sarah is saying, Nick,” he said, glaring at the girl, “you can’t expect anyone to… you know, be  _ you _ .”

“What’s  _ that _  supposed to mean??”

“It means that you live with an unrealistic expectation where everyone is as good as you are.”

Nick pouted. “Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because if feel insulted, Chase.”

“It’s a compliment,” he said hurriedly.

“He’s right, though,” Jason said with a full mouth. “I’d lay my life down for you and all that, man. But that’s just because we’ve been friends since we’re… what? Six or something?”

“It’s harsh, but… that’s life, I guess,” Claire tried—always the diplomat.

And she’s right. They all were. He knew that he’s expecting something unrealistic from his friends, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but to feel a little hurt that he only got this privilege because he’s not the new kid.

“Fine,” he said sullenly. “But at least don’t talk sh—poop behind his back.”

Jason snorted. “You know we’re not gonna wash your mouth if you swear every once in a while, right?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” Chase said with a smile. “I think it’s cute.”

“OOOH... Chase thinks Nick’s cute!”

The big guy flushed instantly. “Not like that, man,” he mumbled.

“Sure, my dude… whatever you say,” Jason said as he smirked at him.

“Get off your high horse, Jas. You pet my hair and called me, and I quote, ‘so soft, so fluffy’ last week.”

Everyone laughed at Jason’s unabashed grin. “Fine, fine. You’re the cutest of ‘em all, Nicky.”

They all laughed again, but quickly sobered up when Nick said, “But seriously, I mean it. No talking behind anyone’s back, OK?” He stared each of his friends down. “I don’t do gossips.”

Jason fidgeted nervously. “What if I tell you it’s not a gossip?”

“Oh, for god’s sake—”

“Here,” Claire said quickly, shoving her phone into his hand. “Read this.”

Glaring at her, he snatched the phone and read. But his frown turned from irritated to shocked when he read the news article.

  1. _Griffith, 49, former Colonel for U.S. Army, incarcerated for an alleged homicide charge against his youngest son, D. Griffith, age 8. Griffith was found heavily injured, but alive and conscious, with a combat dagger, possibly his own from his army days, stabbed through his left cheek to the right. D.’s caretaker at Sunny Yard Daycare, L. Hansen, 27, was the one who called the emergency dispatch service, right after the victim’s older brother, M. Griffith, 14, reportedly “hang up in distress” from his usual check-in call to the daycare. M. himself was also found unconscious in the crime scene. The extend of his wounds has been deemed confidential by the NYPD and New York State Office of Children and Family Services._



__

_ As of now, it is uncertain as to what will happen to the only surviving member of the Griffith family, as his mother had passed away in a hit-and-run accident back in 2015. NYPD insisted on keeping the details vague, owing to M.’s minor status, but as of today, there has been no report on any guardians or proxy that may take care of him until he reached the age of majority. _

The news still went on—speculating Michael’s role on the accident, as well as his imminent status as a ward of the state. But Nick couldn’t read it. He’s too overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions to care.

“What….” He croaked.

“I’m sorry, man. It sucks, but… well,” Jason said, shrugging.

“It could… it could be someone else… right?”

Sarah eyed him pityingly. “Griffith’s not exactly a common surname, Nick.”

“But… but what’s gonna happen to him?” he mumbled numbly.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But honestly? It’s out of our hands.”

“We can’t just—”

“We talked about this, Nick,” Chase said gently, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his arm. “you can’t keep beating yourself up over stuff that you have no control of.”

Claire nodded. “Like Jason said; it sucks. And I honestly feel sorry for him. I know you’re thinking about what if we all did more for him, but honestly? That wouldn’t change anything about his father. You could’ve stood there, taking all the beating from him everyday, and his father would still be a murderer in the end.” She clutched his other hand. “It’s not your fault. None of this is on us.”

“Yeah, man. C’mon… can’t we talk about something else instead? Do you know Mr. Rodriguez gave me a detention—again? That man, I swear he’s got something on me!”

His friends very pointedly decided to change the subject, but he couldn’t focus on their chatter. His mind was buzzing with guilt and sadness for the boy whose voice he never even heard—probably never would. He couldn’t imagine himself in his situation, and he wanted nothing more than to say his condolences.

But it’s too late. Nobody ever seen or heard of Michael Griffith again after that. No further news, no rumors, it’s like he never even went to Eastview High in the first place.

Until the sophomore year came around, of course.


	3. The New Kid

Of course Nick had to be late on the first day of school. Also, of course Nick had to stay short, even after his  “growth-spurt” finally arrived last summer, if he could even call it that. He rushed through the hallway, as quick as his not-so-long-legs could carry him. Mrs. Riggs was notoriously heavy-handed against tardiness, and he didn’t want to get a detention on the first day of Sophomore year.

He skidded to a stop when the a group of students stood silently in front of the locker hallway.

_ Wonder what’s up? _  He thought as he desperately tried to squeeze himself into the crowd.

“Nick!” he heard Sarah hissing in his ear.

“Sarah?”

“Over here!”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the front of the crowd.

“What’s up Sarah? Why is everyone—” he cut off as he finally saw the person that was being gawked at by what seemed to be half of his year and then some.

Michael Griffith.

He was taller—easily only an inch or two shorter than Chase’s 6’1”. He also looked like he’s finally been eating over the summer; his fitted jeans actually fit him and his leather jacket—since when did he even wear  _ leather jacket _ —wrapped around his shoulders instead of hanging off of them. His hair was no longer a floppy, tangled mess that it had been. Instead, it was styled into a casually messed quiff. In short—Michael Griffith glo’d up over the winter, spring, and summer break, and Nick was more than a little impressed.

Until he turned around from his locker and faced the crowd, and Nick finally caught his eyes.

They were  _ dead _ .

They were still deep-set. Still sharp and intelligent-looking. Whereas they used to look dog-tired and heavily-bagged, now they look like he’s been catching up on his sleep for a few days straight. But the last time Nick saw him, his eyes were still alive with emotion. Dark, morose, repressed emotion, but at least it was  _ something _ . Now the dark orbs held absolutely nothing at all. They just stared, cold and empty at the increasingly unnerved horde.

Michael raised his left eyebrow minutely, but said nothing as he strode over. Gone was the timid, hurried walk. In it’s place, a calm, calculated stalk of a predator; purposeful and strong. The students knew better than not to part and let him through. This new Michael  _ reeked _  of danger, and everyone instinctively caught up on the fact.

Nick decided that he didn’t really like this new Michael—as glo’d up as he might be.

The bell rang, and everyone snapped out of their collective trance.

“Shoot! I’m late!” Nick squeaked.

Sarah slapped him on his back, spurring him to a run. “Go! See you at lunch!”

He hollered an affirmative, but he doubted Sarah could hear it past the renewed hustle and bustle of Eastview High’s panicked, late students.

~ 0 0 0 ~

“Yo! Isn’t that the Griffith kid?”

“No way, dude… isn’t he supposed to be in juvie or something?”

“What? No, that’s his dad… I think.”

“Oh shit, shit, he’s walking here!” 

Both of those no-name students scrambled away, tripping over each other’s legs. Just 2 years ago, it would’ve sent him to the floor, laughing. But now, he’s just content to know that he didn’t even have to try too hard to get people to leave him alone. Clothes maketh the man, indeed.

Apparently, however, Mason Blake and his cheer squad didn’t get the memo.

“Well, well, well. Looks like the queer got himself outta juvie,” he sneered. “How are you, Griffith? Killed anyone else lately?”

Michael stared down at him. “Pretty good, Blake. Volunteering?”

His giggling underlings quieted. Their faces were so laughably easy to read. Shock. Confusion. Realization. Nervousness. Hard to feel intimidated by a bunch of wimps who didn’t even know how to throw a punch correctly.

“Oh, so you  _ can _  speak, huh?” Mason blustered. “Watch it, fag. We all know you’re just a fucking sissy under all that 90’s greaser getup.”

He stepped in, arms out and ready to shove him. But Michael grabbed him harshly by the throat, spun him around, and slammed his back into the wall.

He leaned in and growled, “Don’t test me, Blake. Daddy might not care enough about you to pay for your funeral.”

Mason’s eyes went wide, and Michael knew that his bluff just hit the jackpot. Daddy issues. How painfully basic. Not that he was in any position to judge that. Using it, though? That’s a whole another story.

He grabbed his collar and yanked him close, noting with grim satisfaction that Mason had to look up to see him in the eyes now. “Daddy might be too busy to whip your ass, Blake, but I’m not. Stick your nose where it belongs, or I’ll break it twice over.”

He slammed him back against the wall for a good measure, and faced the rest of his jock-wannabe crew. “Same goes to you. You hit me, I hit you back harder.”

They all scrambled away, all empty threats and tripping legs, like the chickens they were.

God, was it always this easy to get those dip shits away? Did he really subjected himself to unnecessary torment because he didn’t want to “sink to their level”? Did he let himself got delegated into the role of doormat until Dante—

He shook his head, forcefully ending the line of thought. The dog tag under his shirt stuck to his skin pointedly.

_ No. Not going there. _

He walked away to the parking lot, feeling suspiciously like he’s running away.

~ 0 0 0 ~

“Yo, dude,” Jason said in a hushed tone as he forced himself between a protesting Claire and cursing Sarah. “you won’t believe what I just saw.”

“Hello to you too, Jason. My summer break? Why, it was very fun and educative, thank you for asking.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Hi and what not. Dude, Griffith just got badass.”

Sarah slapped his arm away from her face. “Yes, Jason. We all have working eyes, thanks.”

“Not that! OK, so he got an overhaul. Nice. Good for him. But everyone can do that—”

“I don’t know, he lucked out on the growth spurt department too, if you ask me,” Claire said, biting into her apple.

“Jeez, Claire, did you just call me short?” Nick said, pouting.

“I thought you said you’re… what did you call it? “Compact-sized”?”

“Well, yeah.”

Jason, obviously disgruntled for being ignored, huffed and slapped his hand on the table. “Yo! Focus, man, I’m just about to tell you something!”

Sarah snickered at him. “What? You just got sexually confused by Griffith? Don’t feel bad man, he’s totally hot now.”

“Who’s totally hot?” Chase asked as he approached the table.

Sarah perked up. “Nick is! I mean, we were talking about Griffith, but Nick’s totally a babe in that sweater, don’t you think, Chase?” Sarah gushed, smirking at the new junior captain for the school’s football team.

“Uh—I… um….”

“Oh, yeah, I know.  _ Totally _  the cutest wittle wuff we’ve ever seen—tell ‘im Claire!”

“Sarah, should I remind you that I don’t swing  _ your _  way?”

“Well, duh. But do you swing C—”

“I just saw Griffith kicking Mason’s ass!” Chase blustered, face flushed.

_ Wait, what? _

“Okay, first of all, you’re the biggest chicken I’ve ever met. Second, what the fuck?”

Jason huffed indignantly. “I’ve been trying to tell you that!”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. He did what?”

“Yeah, dude. I saw him on the way here. Mason’s being a dick, as usual, but Griffith was like… boom! Smash! And that  _ threat, _  Jesus. It was  _ awesome _ .”

“It was unnecessary, more like,” Chase said disapprovingly. “I mean, I know Mason’s an asshole, but does he really need to get  _ that _  physical?”

“What did he do?” Claire asked.

“Grabbed him by the neck and slammed him to the wall.”

“Holy shit, looks like he’s got it in him after all.”

_ What? _  Nick thought, shocked.  **_ That _ ** _  Michael? _

“Are you sure that’s him?” he asked quietly. “That… doesn’t exactly sound like Michael, you know.”

“That’s him, Nicky. Kinda hard to mistake that jaunty jacket,” Jason said with a mouth full of pizza.

“He wasn’t like that at all,” he argued, but Chase shook his head.

“Everyone’s got a breaking point, Nick. I think he hit his after all those stuff with his… you know. I don’t think he’s the same guy anymore. I know I wouldn’t be.”

Nick chewed his lips. “Well, that… doesn’t sound too good.”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know, he beat up Eastview’s biggest asshole. Big deal, right?”

“For now. But how long do you think he’ll take until he beat  _ us _  up?” Claire asked calmly.

Jason shrugged. “Nah, he doesn’t strike me as the guy who bother people that don’t bother him.”

“Ditto,” Chase said before he looked at him, blue eyes serious and just a little worried. “Nick, I know that look, and I’m honestly so proud of knowing a pure, kind soul like you. But please, for the love of god, stay out of his way.”

“I’m not even doing anything!”

“But you will,” he pointed out. “And I’m telling you now; don’t. He’s bad news, Nick. Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen, Chase.”

“I’m serious! Please, Nick… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw…” Sarah cooed, “Chasey wanna keep you safey, Nicky… just humor him, why don’t you?”

“Ugh. You’re all ridiculous.”

“Not exactly. We just know you. Sooner or later, Griffith’s going to do something that set your alarm, and then you’ll step in and mouth him off.”

“Well, how’s that any different than what I’ve been doing to Mason?”

“Mason knows when to stop,” Chase answered seriously. “He knows that you’ve got us to back you up. Griffith, though? I’m not sure  _ he _  will stop just because we’ve got your back.”

“Yeah, man. Not like I’ll ever leave ya behind or anything, but I’m not sure I can take him mano a mano.”

“That’s all under the assumption that he  _ might _  do something.”

“Oh he will,” Sarah said flippantly. “I’ve got a feeling that he will.”

~ 0 0 0 ~

The good news: Mason and gang left him alone in the hallway.

Bad news: Mason and gang found other ways to annoy the shit out of him.

Hence, his slashed tire.

He sighed, took out his phone, and dialed a friend from work, Santiago. The phone rang four times before he picked up.

_ “Yo, Chico, What’s up? _

“I need your help. Some punk slashed my tire, you got some spares at home?”

_ “Shit, man. Got you. You at school?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “Be right over in 5-ish.” _

“Right. Thanks.”

_ “Hey, no problem, Mike—” _

“Michael.”

_ “—Mike. See you soon.” _

The line went dead. Sighing once more, Michael cast his eyes at the group of assholes, laughing at him from their usual parking spot. Obviously, they were banking on him either losing right there and then—perfect for setting himself up for detention or worse. Either that, or skulk back home on a flat-tired motorcycle.

Well, none of those were ever going to happen.

Around 5 minutes later, another motorcycle pulled over. The rider, Santiago, was a man in his late 20s. Short, stocky, biceps even bigger than Mason’s ego, tattoos more menacing than the man actually was. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Mason suddenly turning pale.

“Ay, that’s bad, boyo,” he said in lieu of greeting. “You’re lucky I use the same tires.”

“Why do you think I call you?” he said rhetorically, already going to work on his bike.

“Oh? So you don’t want me scaring those  _ pendejos _  with their basic ass stock cars?”

“Just don’t get me in trouble.”

“Easy, Brother. Watch and learn.”

Santiago took off his jacket, and marched over to Mason in his straining wife-beater. The security was hedging uncertainly on the gate, not wanting to mess with what he undoubtedly thought a member of a Latino gang.

Well, to be fair Santiago  _ was _  a member. He stopped when a turf war claimed most of his gang members’ lives a few years ago. But Santiago definitely still got the look going on. Michael didn’t need to see to know that Mason and friends were shaking in their metaphorical boots. Or literal, even.

Served them right.

When Santiago came back over, he was chuckling like he just won a lottery. “Gotta be honest with you,  _ Tipo _ , that was actually pretty fucking fun.”

“Come over here again tomorrow, same time. I’ll show you fun.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ha! Shouldn’t have let Davis taught you how to fix cars, huh.”

“You know it.”

“Tell you what, I’ll let you borrow my GoPro if you promise you’ll record them crying to their mamas.”

“Deal.”

“You need help with that?”

He shrugged. “Not really, but if you don’t wanna look like an idiot, standing there doing zilch….”

“Brat,” Santiago said, even as he plopped down on the asphalt and started to work on the back tire.

The drive from school to Mr. Davis’ shop was one of the most satisfying he’d ever done.


End file.
